The subtle yet profound connection between writing and dance has been a recurring theme in my thoughts recently. It’s a link I’m keen to explore further, a channel I want to keep open. Perhaps overshadowed by the more commonly discussed relationship between music and prose, the interplay of words and movement holds a unique, almost counter-intuitive appeal. For me, these two art forms are deeply intertwined; dance offers invaluable insights into the craft of writing itself.
A piece of writing advice that resonates deeply, though initially intended for dancers, comes from the iconic choreographer Martha Graham. Found within her biography, this wisdom provides solace before a blank page, much like it might encourage a dancer to find their center and prepare to move. Graham wrote: “There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open.”
What can the art of crafting words learn from an art form that transcends verbal expression? I believe I’ve gleaned as much about writing from observing dancers as I have from countless hours of reading. Dance offers writers invaluable lessons in position, attitude, rhythm, and style – some immediately apparent, others more subtly implied. What follows are reflections on these lessons, drawn from the diverse world of dance, culminating in the powerful example of Beyoncé and her commanding stage presence.
Astaire, Kelly, and the Ground Beneath Our Feet
“Fred Astaire embodies aristocracy in his dance,” Gene Kelly once remarked, “while I represent the proletariat.” This distinction, while seemingly simple, is profoundly insightful. Astaire, tall, slender, and effortlessly elegant, contrasts sharply with Kelly, muscular, athletic, and grounded. Beyond the visual cues of top hat and tails versus casual attire, lies a deeper difference in their relationship with gravity itself. Astaire appears to float, skimming across surfaces, defying the pull of the earth. Kelly, in contrast, is firmly rooted, his center of gravity low, his movements deliberate and connected to the ground.
This dichotomy extends to their personas. The aristocrat moves fluidly through the world, seemingly unburdened, while the proletariat is tethered to specific locations, be it a city block, a factory floor, or a field. Cyd Charisse famously noted that she could discern which dancer she had been working with – Astaire or Kelly – simply by observing her body at the end of the day. Kelly left her bruised, a testament to his dynamic, earth-bound style, while Astaire, aloof from the ground and physical exertion, left no mark. Even in partnership, Astaire maintained a certain detachment. His collaborations with Ginger Rogers, spanning fifteen years and ten films, are characterized by harmony rather than overt sensuality. Contrast this with Kelly’s fiery chemistry with Cyd Charisse in the dream ballet sequence from Singin’ in the Rain, and the connection between earthiness and physicality becomes palpable.
In writing, we often face a similar choice: to be grounded or to float. The “ground” in this context is everyday language, the language of television, advertising, newspapers, and public discourse. Some writers embrace this common tongue, recreating it, manipulating it to their advantage. Others, like Nabokov, an aristocrat both literally and aesthetically, rarely touch it. Nabokov’s language is consciously “literary,” distant from our shared linguistic home.
This “literary” language, however, can be seen as acknowledging its own artifice, unlike “commonsense” language, which often claims to be natural and conversational but is frequently as constructed as any artifice, shaped by advertising agencies and government spin. Consider phrases like “The People’s Princess” or “Make America Great Again” – sentimental and manipulative in equal measure. While commonsense language purports to mirror natural speech, writers who truly capture the nuances of everyday conversation are often labeled as stylists, satirists, or experimentalists. Beckett and George Saunders are prime examples in literature. In dance, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson comes to mind. His signature stair tap routine, seemingly grounded and folksy, became surreal when performed on a double staircase, an Escher-like illusion of endless steps.
Astaire, while not an experimental dancer in the vein of Twyla Tharp or Pina Bausch, achieves a different kind of surrealism, one of transcendence. His dance poses a fantastical question: what if a body could move like this through the world? It remains a rhetorical question, a dream, as no one truly moves like Astaire in reality.
Conversely, observing French youths bounding up the steps of the High Line in New York, their posture mirroring Gene Kelly in On The Town, or seeing kids on the A train swinging around poles, evokes Kelly’s grounded grace. Kelly’s dance draws from the commonplace, reminding us of the inherent grace within our own bodies. He embodies our youthful physicality, the ideal combination of natural talent and honed skill. He demonstrates how the prosaic can become poetic through dedication. Astaire, however, seems to transcend effort. He is “poetry in motion,” his movements so otherworldly they set a limit to our own aspirations. We don’t expect to dance like Astaire, just as we don’t truly expect to write like Nabokov.
The Nicholas Brothers: Weaponizing Talent
Like writing, dance is accessible even to those with little material wealth. Virginia Woolf famously noted that for a modest sum, one could buy enough paper to write like Shakespeare. In dance, the only essential equipment is the body itself. Many of history’s greatest dancers have emerged from humble backgrounds. For Black dancers, this often came with the added weight of representation, performing on stage, bearing the expectations of both their community and a wider audience.
The Nicholas Brothers, Harold and Fayard, though not from impoverished backgrounds—their parents were college-educated musicians—lacked formal dance training. They learned by observing performers on the “chitlin circuit,” the segregated Black vaudeville scene. Their movie performances were often filmed to be easily excised when films were shown in the South, ensuring their brilliance didn’t disrupt segregated narratives. Genius contained, yet undeniably present.
Sammy Davis Jr., another product of the chitlin circuit and straitened circumstances, declared, “My talent was the weapon, the power, the way for me to fight. It was the one way I might hope to affect a man’s thinking.” This sentiment resonates within communities where opportunity is scarce. The mantra “be twice as good” becomes a survival strategy, a demand for undeniable excellence. Watching the Nicholas Brothers, one witnesses this principle embodied.
Their skill was extraordinary, exceeding any reasonable expectation. Fred Astaire himself lauded their Stormy Weather routine as the pinnacle of cinematic dance. Their descent down a staircase in perfect splits defies logic, making the impossible appear effortless. Impeccably dressed, they were not merely representing; they were exceeding all limitations.
Observing Harold and Fayard, I discern a subtle difference, a valuable lesson. Fayard embodies the responsibility of representation, his demeanor proper, his technique flawless, a credit to his race. Harold, however, dances with unrestrained joy. His hair, initially slicked back, gradually loosens with each step, his natural afro asserting itself, a visual symbol of his liberated spirit. Between propriety and joy, Harold chooses joy. This resonates deeply with the creative process – sometimes, abandoning rigid control and embracing the joy of expression leads to true brilliance.
Jackson vs. Prince: Legibility and Elusiveness
YouTube dance-offs between Michael Jackson and Prince present a stark contrast, not in skill, but in artistic values: legibility versus temporality, monument versus mirage. Both were exceptional dancers, sharing physical similarities – slight frames, long necks, thin legs, and a torso-driven power influenced by James Brown. The splits, spins, glides, and head jerks were common elements in their vocabulary, yet their dance identities were worlds apart.
Prince’s dance is ephemeral, elusive. Despite countless viewings, his moves resist firm memory, remaining unfixed, almost secret. To dance like Prince is an impossible task; you might spin, maybe attempt a split, but the essence of Prince remains intangible. To be a Prince fan is to feel a sense of personal ownership, a belief that his genius is uniquely understood. Even in stadiums, Prince’s performances felt intimate, private, akin to a house party performance, intensely powerful yet fleeting, confined to the moment.
Jackson was the antithesis. Every move was legible, public, infinitely copied, a pre-internet meme. He thought in images, designed for posterity. He meticulously outlined each movement, like a crime scene chalk outline, emphasizing angles, shortening trousers to highlight ankle movements, grabbing his groin to underscore gyrations, gloving a single hand to draw attention to its rhythmic precision.
His later stage costumes amplified this legibility, becoming a form of armor designed to define every body part. Straps highlighted joints, a metallic sash accentuated shoulder shifts, a belt defined his hips, and a silver thong rendered his groin undeniably prominent. Subtlety was absent, but clarity reigned. Michael Jackson’s dance is timeless, endlessly replicable.
Prince, in contrast, embodies elusiveness, a deeper, more transient beauty. This resonates with the literary world, where Keats, the poet of fleeting moments, endures alongside the more defined figure of Byron. Prince represents the inspiration of the moment, an ode to a passing sensation, adapting and changing with shifting moods – a valuable lesson for any creative.
There is a rigidity in being a monument. Better to be the artist jamming into the early hours, whose essence evades capture even through phone cameras. Prince escaped us even in death. His image may endure, but it will never possess the same distinct clarity as Jackson’s, a testament to the power of elusiveness in art.
Beyoncé: Commanding Legions Through Dance
Janet Jackson, Madonna, and Beyoncé transcend mere imitation; their dance demands replication. They are not just legible but prescriptive, leading armies of followers. We become the uniformed dancers behind them, precisely mirroring the gestures of our general.
This became literal on Beyoncé’s Formation tour. Raising her arm like a shotgun, pulling the trigger, and unleashing a gunshot sound effect. This is not intimate dance; it’s a franchise, a ruling idea – “Beyoncé” – disseminated globally. At Wembley, much of the crowd faced each other, not the stage. Watching Beyoncé wasn’t essential; her idea had been internalized. Gym friends pumped fists in unison, hen parties mirrored “Beyoncé” moves, and Beyhive members shouted lyrics into each other’s faces. A public display of allegiance, a shared language of movement.
Beyoncé, following Janet Jackson and Madonna, represents the apex of this phenomenon. Dance becomes a declaration of female will, a tangible display of power and reach. The message is clear: My body obeys me. My dancers obey me. Now you will obey me. The audience, in turn, imagines themselves commanding similar obedience – an empowering fantasy.
Literary counterparts exist: Muriel Spark, Joan Didion, Jane Austen. These writers, while reaching smaller audiences, command similar devotion. They offer control over form and a sense of dictated readership. Contrast them with Jean Rhys or Octavia Butler, beloved but less imitated writers, whose work offers more freedom, less prescription. Didion’s every sentence declares: obey me! Who runs the world? Girls! Beyoncé’s dance, and that of Jackson and Madonna, is about power, control, and the undeniable impact of a precisely crafted and disseminated movement vocabulary. Beyoncé dancing is not just performance; it is a statement of intent, a visual manifestation of authority.
Byrne, Bowie, and the Art of Not Dancing
The art of not dancing – awkward, inelegant, jerky movement – holds vital lessons. Being “bad” can be powerful, expressing alternative bodily possibilities, disrupting expectations. Both David Byrne and David Bowie explored this in their “blackest cuts.” Byrne in “Take me to the river,” in oversized trousers, observing his own jerky hips as if they belonged to another. “This music isn’t mine,” his clothes suggest, and his movements amplify: “maybe this body isn’t either.” This leads to a liberating thought: perhaps nothing is truly owned.
Writers, like dancers, can be overly protective of “heritage” and “tradition.” Preservation has its place, but it shouldn’t stifle freedom or appropriation. All aesthetic expressions are available to all, under the banner of love. Bowie and Byrne’s evident love for “not theirs” reveals new dimensions in familiar sounds. Before seeing them dance, it hadn’t occurred to me that one could respond to a drumbeat with anything other than harmonious, flowing movement. But resistance, angularity, and deliberate awkwardness, as Bowie and Byrne demonstrate, offer alternative expressive avenues.
Luther Vandross, a young backup singer for Bowie during Young Americans, watching Bowie flail and thrash, might have initially wondered, “What in the world is he doing?” But the message soon became clear: something different, something old yet new, a liberation from conventional movement.
Nureyev and Baryshnikov: Inward and Outward Gazes
When facing an audience, will you turn inwards or outwards? Nureyev, fierce, neurotic, vulnerable, and beautiful, is resolutely inward-facing. “You can’t take your eyes off him,” yet watching him is almost excruciating. We fear breaking him, witnessing a collapse. Disaster never strikes, but with each leap, the possibility looms, like with high-strung athletes. With Nureyev, we are onlookers, granted the honor of witnessing a miracle. He dances with full awareness of this miracle, silently asking: what have you done to deserve this? (Dostoevsky embodies a similar intensity.)
Baryshnikov, in contrast, is outward-facing, seeking to please, and succeeding. His face dances alongside his limbs. Nureyev’s face is lost in transcendent feeling; Baryshnikov’s is expressive, engaging. Baryshnikov charms, entertains, embraces comedy, drama, cerebral depth, even clowning – whatever the audience needs. He is both loving and loved, moving between high and low modes, always connecting outwards. (Tolstoy shares this outward-facing generosity).
Meeting Baryshnikov, star-struck, I could barely speak. Finally, I asked, “Did you ever meet Fred Astaire?” He smiled, “Yes, once, at a dinner. I was very star-struck, I hardly spoke. But I watched his hands the whole time, they were like a lesson in themselves – so elegant!”
From Astaire’s effortless grace to Beyoncé’s commanding presence, from the Nicholas Brothers’ joyful virtuosity to the deliberate awkwardness of Byrne and Bowie, dance offers writers a rich tapestry of lessons in style, intention, and the power of movement, both physical and linguistic. The key, perhaps, lies in keeping that channel open, allowing the vitality of both art forms to inform and enrich each other.
Swing Time by Zadie Smith is published on 15 November (Hamish Hamilton, £18.99). To order a copy for £15.57, go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846.
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